


Come Fly With Me

by asokatanos (Emryslin)



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: F/M, this is melt your teeth fluffy romance and nothing else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25204462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emryslin/pseuds/asokatanos
Summary: She realizes suddenly that she doesn't want to share this, wants to keep him - and them - to herself, safe in their little solar system of two. (Fluff set in an AU in which there was no Pike arc).
Relationships: Patrick Jane/Teresa Lisbon
Comments: 8
Kudos: 100





	Come Fly With Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of(?) a sequel to Saving Grace, except it really doesn't have anything to do with the plot of that story at all and can easily be read on its own. It's pure fluff, and all the context you really need is that the Pike arc never happens. At the end of SG Jane casually/accidentally tells Lisbon he loves her after she brings him tea in a hospital in New Mexico just prior to Violets. Also Grace and Rigsby are in Austin, though they don't really feature here.
> 
> Some asides for this fic, presented in random order: 1. the English language really needs better endearments; every other language I know has heart stopping ones, but nothing in English has that kind of raw power. 2. there's a fight here similarish to one in canon, but this is a happy, sappy set of stories, so their fight is short and forgiven a bit quick. Check out "Suspicion" by daphnaea for a longer and more angsty one! 3. I SO adore when they're playful or competitive with each other! Let them be friends! 4. I don't know why peonies, honestly. Just happened. 5. "Fly Me To The Moon" and "Come Fly With Me" are both rather lovely Sinatra songs.
> 
> Anyway! Here's a series of firsts for our favorite couple, just unadulterated romantic fluff that's candy sweet. If you can think of any firsts I've missed here, drop a line and I'll consider writing them sometime in the future. I'm still supposed to be staying away from the internet rn but I made the mistake of watching ONE episode again and then all of this immediately forced me to stop what I was doing and write. Thankfully I write very fast, but now I gotta run!

They go to a hidden little jazz venue for their first date. Jane somehow always knew local best kept secrets, honing in with unerring accuracy on delicious diners and perfect pastry shops on every case they investigate, no matter how remote. Evidently, his talents extend to finding cozy and delightful music venues too, and they both enjoy the music so much that any awkwardness of figuring out how to be _together_ is wiped away. She's in a simple black dress she's always liked, he in his usual suit with his hair glowing under golden lights, and he tells her she is beautiful in between soulful bars of saxophone.

Later, they go for ice cream, and Jane tucks her hand into the crook of his right arm like an old timey gentleman as they walk out of the shop, cones in hand. She'd picked out a deliciously creamy classic chocolate, and he'd chosen a fussy little concoction of lemon and hibiscus flowers topped with little flakes of lemon zest that is named _Island Soiree_.

She teases him as they walk along the river, asks if he is homesick for the island he'd hidden away on during his exile, but he only smiles a little solemnly and shakes his head.

"The island had its benefits of course - the beaches were lovely after all - but sadly it was lacking something I've discovered is vital to my happiness." He casts her a significant look, but then turns his attention fully back to his ice cream as if that hadn't been a monumental thing to say.

She's already finished with her cone, not as taken to savoring food as he is. So to dispel the strange giddy feeling his statement visits upon her, she reaches for his ice cream, intending to steal a bite for herself.

"Ah, ah!" He is too quick, and her fingers miss the cone to land on his wrist instead as he extends his arm behind him. The movement brings her around to stand in front of him instead of beside, closer than usual because of the way her left hand is still wrapped around his right elbow. His right hand comes up to her hip, and there is still laughter in his eyes when he leans in - slowly, slowly - to kiss her for the first time. He tastes like lemons and sunshine.

They stay there, cloaked under trees and starlight and each with one arm extended like dancers in a tango until the ice cream drips over its cone and down the back of his hand to coat her fingers where they are still clasped around his wrist.

* * *

He says it casually several more times, cleverly dropping it into casual conversations and jokes and witticisms. But the eighth time is the first one in which he says it without the glamor of pretense and levity, with a sincerity that nearly floors them both. He's brought her coffee from her favorite shop early in the morning, and arrives at her door a full ten minutes before her alarm. He hears her grumbling as she looks in the peephole before opening the door, and smiles to himself. That she is still not a morning person despite having raised three young brothers and getting them ready for school and then again despite so many years in this job of odd hours and early starts is somehow endearing.

More so when the door finally opens and reveals her standing there with her hair messily tumbling half over her face, only one eye blearily open. Her mouth is set in what he thinks of as the "Jane pout," as he's only ever seen it directed at him. Her loose shirt is rumpled, the little shorts below barely visible underneath. He brandishes the coffee like a peace offering, and she accepts it with a look that - still only delivered through one open eye - clearly says _thanks but you're still on thin ice for waking me, mister_. Objectively, she looks mussed and exhausted and irritated at being awoken. But looking at her in the muzzy early morning light, he still thinks she looks lovely, and instead of the glib and cheery morning greeting he'd intended what tumbles out of his mouth instead is her name.

"Teresa." Followed by, "I love you." He says it again. "I _love_ you."

She'd closed her eyes to savor the scent of the coffee, but lowers the cup away from her face to look up at him - this time, forcing both her eyes open to regard him. The pout drops from her face, and she wordlessly opens the door a little wider to let him in, though just shy of wide enough so as to make him brush past, and she trails her fingers against his arm as he passes.

* * *

A couple of days later, he greets her again in the morning, and thankfully she's more awake. She'd dreamed about what a relationship with him would be like before, of course she had, though reality was nothing like it. She'd expected him to be the same witty and dramatic and sweet and slightly egotistical man he always was, only turned all the way up to eleven. But there are moments these days in which he is uncharacteristically shy and unguarded, almost nervous around her, and it surprises her and only endears him to her more. That morning, he greets her with a cup of coffee and a smile with so much warmth that she feels a little overwhelmed, but then he stumbles over his own words a moment later when she says hello.

"Come on, let's take a walk this morning, it's a nice day out," he says, and then smiles when she hands him back her coffee to pull on shoes. But when she pulls the door shut behind her and looks back at him, it's like he's forgotten all about how to be suave, because he says "it's a lovely day out," like he hadn't just said so a moment ago.

And then he looks sheepish, which makes her smile, so she takes her coffee back from him and then takes his hand too as they walk. He finds himself again after a moment, and babbles on about whatever topics come to mind, his hand warm around hers while he gestures with his paper cup. A light breeze ruffles their hair and the sun is warm at their backs as they pass jogging college kids and women with strollers and men with dogs. All at once she feels like they are just like two normal people walking hand in hand, no conspiracies looming behind them, no tragic histories, no betrayals and exiles and nightmares and lies - just uncomplicated, regular people.

When they return to her apartment, it takes her a moment to fish out her key, reluctant to drop his hand.

"We should think about getting you a key too," she says while still facing the door, and then cringes a little when she hears how awkward and unsure she sounded. But he doesn't answer right away, and when she looks up at him from behind her hair, she sees that he's _fidgeting_. And that image strikes her as funny, suddenly, because they _aren't_ just uncomplicated regular people at all. They've known each other for nearly thirteen years, have orbited around each other like twin suns for so long, have put their whole lives in each other's hands, trusted each other when it felt like nearly everyone around them couldn't be trusted. Despite everything that's happened to them, he's been her best friend as far back as she cares to recall. And yet here they are, awkwardly dancing around each other like strangers meeting and falling in love for the first time.

She's laughing by the time he finally says "uh, yeah, that would make things easier," and when he looks at her in confusion, it just makes her laugh more, so she tugs at his hand to bring him closer and kisses him. He grins dopily at her afterwards, and she feels a rush of affection so strong she doesn't know what to do with it, so she just takes his empty cup from him and turns away to toss it along with hers.

His arms come around her from behind and he hugs her to him, so she leans back, letting her eyes shut and resting her cheek against his right there in her kitchen. She realizes suddenly that she doesn't want to share this, wants to keep him - and them - to herself, safe in their little solar system of two. She rests her arms against his as they sway a little to a beat neither of them can hear, both their eyes closed.

"Jane," she says, and she can feel his answering hum vibrating through him almost as much as she hears it. "I want to ask you for something."

"Anything," he promises.

"I don't want to tell anyone at work that we're together yet."

He doesn't respond for a second, and then he chuckles, but she feels the way his arms stiffen even as he says "why, are you embarrassed?"

She lets go of his arms and pulls away in order to face him. "No!"

"It's okay to be embarrassed," he assures her, though he's looking somewhere beyond her shoulder and has now jammed his hands back into his pockets the way he does when he's uncomfortable. She realizes for the first time that he's unsure of her feelings, afraid she will choose someone else someday. As if she ever could.

"No," she repeats firmly, bringing her hands up to his shoulders. "I'm not embarrassed. I don't want you to ever think so. I just want to keep you to myself for a little while longer. Jane, look at me."

He does, and she lets every kind thought she's ever had about him show in her face before she pulls his hands out of his pockets and takes them in hers. "I don't want to share what we have with the whole world just yet," she explains.

His expression softens immediately, and he lifts her hands to press a kiss to her fingertips before holding them against his chest, right over his heart.

"Okay."

* * *

The first time they tumble into bed together, it's still early days, and it's more of a fall than a _tumble_ , really.

It had followed on the heels of a case out in the middle of nowhere that hadn't been particularly difficult or devastating, but that had, unfortunately, involved a late night stakeout to catch their perp sneaking out to find a better hiding spot for the murder weapon. It's nearly one am before the man is cuffed and then booked, nearly two before they're done making whatever statements they need to make. It's nearly another two hours drive back to Austin, and Jane puts his foot down despite the fact that they weren't budgeted for a hotel stay.

By three, they've found the only tiny hotel with a front desk still open within twenty miles of the tiny little town, and neither bothers to protest when they learn there's only one room available. Jane hands over his card to pay for the room and Lisbon goes to pull her overnight bag from the trunk, too tired to even admonish him for not having thought to bring his. As if reading her mind, he raises his eyebrows at her and requests a toothbrush from the teenager at the front desk. He receives it along with the room key, and holds up the little plastic package for her inspection. She only shrugs back in return, and then tilts her head towards the hallway as she hides a yawn. He nods, and then turns to thank the teenager, who is regarding them with an amused look after watching their silent conversation.

"Been together that long, huh?" the boy asks, and Jane chuckles, his eyes sliding over to her in amusement. She smirks back when she's done yawning.

"In a manner of speaking," he says, because it's true, even though it isn't by the definition the boy probably means.

He unlocks the door to the room and allows her to enter first, holding the door open. They both sit down on the bed heavily upon entering, stifling more yawns, and she briefly drops her head onto his shoulder. It's nice - a little too comfortable unless they want to pass out sitting up, so he nudges her slightly. "You can have the bathroom first," he says. "I'll wait."

By the time she's changed and gotten herself ready for bed, he's fast asleep on top of the covers, still fully dressed, though his jacket is draped over a nearby chair. He doesn't stir when she brushes past him deliberately, so she just pulls off his shoes for him, letting them drop to the floor right there. And then she pulls out the spare blanket that's tucked into the top of the closet and drapes it over him before climbing into the bed herself, clicking off the lights as she goes.

They wake up the next morning with his arm around her waist and his face pressed against her hair, and it's uncomplicated again, as if they really had been together that long, really had been spending every morning for years waking up this way, even though really it's the first time. They smile at each other a little without speaking in the gentle morning sunlight, and he leans a little closer to kiss her cheek before getting up to go use his plastic wrapped toothbrush.

* * *

The second time is _definitely_ more of a tumble. It follows a case that has him pretending to be some sort of magician at a late night show while she stands behind the bar in a too tight dress, keeping an eye on a pair of suspects who order round after round of Dirty Shirleys while talking in low voices. She watches Jane's clever hands as they weave one card trick after another, followed by a series of improbable illusions that end with him turning an accusing finger at their killer, who promptly runs.

It's almost too easy to catch the man even despite her hatefully tight dress and heels. She isn't even out of breath when she does, frog marching him past Jane and his expressive hands and into the back of a nearby squad car.

Jane's staring at her with a new look in his eyes when she comes back, somehow hungry and dangerous all at once, making her shiver despite the balmy heat of the late night Texas air.

They wordlessly book another hotel room instead of driving home so late, and she finds new appreciation for the stupidly tight dress as it flutters to the floor, torn right off her. She also finds new appreciation for Jane's hands, which are even more clever than she'd previously given them credit for. She never looks at them the same way again.

They wake her up in an even more inventive way in the morning, and her throat is raw for two full days from screaming his name.

He takes to leaving a spare toothbrush in her go bag.

* * *

Their first fight was unmemorable. It was so long ago that they first met - and subsequently fought - that it is all but lost in the ether of memory. Neither of them had known then what they'd wind up meaning to the other, and so their first spat had never been an important landmark.

Their first fight after they redefine things is less fight and more heartbreak, and it stays with them forever.

It follows an op in which Lisbon has to go undercover for a week as bait for some kind of sick serial killer who had been selecting victims at a shelter for women fleeing domestic violence. Unfortunately, out of all the women in their unit, Lisbon had been the only one convincing enough to settle into the role required, having shared some of the experience in her youth.

Jane had voiced his protest vehemently at the outset, though he'd been overruled. When Lisbon had realized she'd need real bruises before she went in on the first day, he'd left the room entirely and then refused to speak to her before she left for the shelter. She'd been hurt, wanting his support before going in, but knew that he couldn't always like the things she did for her job. That wasn't how it worked, and it wasn't shocking or terrible of him to disagree with these more difficult operations, even though his support would have been nice. So she'd taken a breath and forgiven him for taking it badly before even limping into the shelter, aching from fresh injuries she'd persuaded Grace to deliver.

It is afterwards that things go wrong.

Jane hasn't withdrawn from the case at all, and is instead monitoring things almost obsessively - as much as he can without tipping off the killer, who they'd yet to identify. Once he figures it out though, he deviates from the plan and lies to Lisbon to send her in the opposite direction as he lures out a homicidal woman, putting himself firmly in the crosshairs without back up, a vest, a weapon, or common sense.

Only Cho's quick thinking and years of experience with Jane's antics saves him in the end, the bullet meant for his face whizzing past harmlessly two inches off to the side and exploding into the wall.

Lisbon is apoplectic, but they don't get the chance to talk about it, as it turns out that there hadn't been just one killer, but two. With all of their attention focused on the first, the second is free to strike again, and a young woman disappears from the shelter right under their noses. Given the pattern, they only have two days to find her before her body will turn up on a shoulder off the highway. Lisbon goes back undercover, and a second agent goes in with her under the guise of a social worker.

They find the girl before it's too late, but the second agent catches a knife in the gut that had been intended for Lisbon.

Lisbon finds Jane in the hospital, watching over the agent who is in critical condition after having gone into shock from blood loss and a perforated bowel. Jane turns accusing eyes on Lisbon as soon as she walks in. "That could have been you," he says, his voice so cold and detached it almost doesn't sound like him. It's been a hard, awful week with both of them narrowly escaping with their lives, and all Lisbon wants is to reach out for him, to be wrapped up in each other and not emerge for the whole weekend.

But he steps back from her touch and shakes his head. "I need- I need time. I'll be back. Later." He leans in and carefully drops a kiss on her cheek before disappearing out the door, leaving her alone with the agent who might yet die on her behalf.

She doesn't see him for the rest of the day, not when she gives her lengthy debrief and statement to Abbott and not when she finally heads home. She tries calling him that night when she realizes her apartment feels empty, the silence far too much after a week in close quarters with ten others. But his phone rings in her own pocket instead of wherever he is, and she hates him a little for running from her yet again.

He doesn't show up for a whole week, and it's only Abbott's assurance that he'd cleared only a week's time off before allowing Jane to go that keeps her from flying into a fit of worry that she'll never see him again.

He's on her couch when she returns from her run on Saturday morning, looking drawn and tired and as wan as she feels. She's glad to see him, but upset and heartbroken too, so she doesn't acknowledge him with more than a look as she passes him to pull her bottle of water from the fridge. But then she sighs when she realizes she doesn't know what to do with all her anger, so she gives him an inch he doesn't deserve by sitting across from him in her favorite chair by the open window.

She doesn't speak though, just watches as he regards his hands with an air of defeat. "I don't know how to do this," he says finally, curling the fingers of his left hand and covering them with his right. He looks up at her, and there are shadows under his eyes, the lines in his face stark and weary. "I don't know how to- to live without you."

"Then why did you leave?"

He looks miserable. "Because I didn't know how to do the opposite either. You could have _died_. And suddenly I couldn't see anything past that, nothing further that mattered. Once I considered that possibility, there was nothing left, and I couldn't…" he trails off, hanging his head.

"How dare you," she says, angry again. She stands, looming over him. "You almost died too. You don't have combat training and you weren't even wearing a bulletproof vest, but you were prepared to get killed - just like that. How exactly do you think I would have handled it if you had died? How dare you! That is so selfish!"

She paces back and forth, and her fury shocks him into sitting up straight. "And then you _left_ and I didn't even have a way to get in touch! How was I to be sure nothing happened to you? Or that you didn't just leave for good? You made sure I couldn't even call you!"

"I said I'd be back!"

"Yeah, of course, and you've never lied to me before, right? Never run off and disappeared on me? Never avoided my phone calls?"

He looks away. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Yeah, well you did. You scared me a lot, Jane. And for what? Where did it lead you? And when will you figure out you _aren't_ alone? That you have me, but also Cho and Grace and Rigsby and the rest of the team? I can't be the only thing you have to live for."

He shakes his head. "But they aren't-"

She cuts him off. "I don't want to hear it. They're family, and I thought that after everything that's happened you'd know that by now. You left all of them, and you left _me_. Don't you care about me at all?" Her voice breaks, and she looks out the window, trying to hide the wobble in her chin as she struggles not to let angry tears fall.

"Of course I do! How could you even-" He cuts himself off, suddenly realizing he doesn't want to defend himself, knowing he's hurt her.

"I'm sorry." He stands and moves to her, gently taking her face in his hands and turning her face towards his own. He bends a little to look her in the eye. "I'm so sorry. You asked where it all led me?" He takes a breath, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones.

"It led me right back here, Teresa. My home and my life will always be wherever you are, no matter what. I know that now. I don't think I'll ever have an easy time watching you be in danger, but this job is a part of you as much as any of the rest, and I love _all_ of you. I'm sorry it took some running away before I figured it out." He touches his forehead to hers, eyes sliding shut.

She deflates, her anger ebbing when she realizes he means it. She's already forgiven him this particular grievance twice now, and at least this third time he'd come back with an apology and an "I love you" that he doesn't attempt to retract. She reaches up to cup his elbows to hold him there, but then thinks better of it and winds her arms all the way around him instead. She tucks her face into the crook of his neck so she doesn't have to meet his eyes when she speaks, not knowing what he'll see. "You almost died too," she reminds him again. "I don't want to lose you either. Remember what I said? It goes both ways."

His arms wrap around her tight, and he rests his cheek against her hair, finally holding her as she'd wanted a week ago at the end of the op.

"I love you so much, Teresa. You terrify me."

She doesn't say it back, because while her anger has left her, she is still upset. Instead, she says, "we both need to do better, okay? I'll try to stay away from ops that need bait, and you try to stop putting yourself in front of armed killers without any back up. And you don't run from me ever again. I can't forgive you a fourth time. I won't." It's a warning and a promise.

"I promise, I'm never leaving you again. I'm done running. For good. And the other thing too."

They stay like that for a long moment until she feels the grittiness of sand beneath her skin and leans away to brush it off his clothes. "Where on earth did you _go_?"

She's forgiven him by the end of the week, and it dawns on him all over again just how lucky he is to have her, how lucky he is that she has so much forgiveness in her heart, how lucky he is that she ever let him in at all, and so he makes a promise to himself too, one he doesn't say out loud but means all the same.

* * *

The first time she tells him she loves him isn't long after that. It's been obvious for a long time, of course, and they've both known it, but the words had hidden themselves away until unearthed by his promise to never run from her again and the efforts he'd been making towards her in the time since.

Like many things in their lives, it follows an awful case. This one involves two children whose father is killed and who are sold off afterward by a neighbor for drug money. Their wealthy mother is long since estranged from their struggling father, and she is a politician who takes the kids out for a nice dinner once a week as if that fulfilled all of her motherly duties towards them. She has a second pair of children with a politically advantageous man, the younger two children blonder and bluer eyed and leading a very different life from that of their half siblings. Still, she'd reported them missing when they missed dinner and had taken it straight to Director Schultz, with whom she attended luncheons for influential people every now and then.

The case lands in their laps, but the search for the missing kids blows open a massive trafficking ring, unveiling open cases of several girls in their late teens who had gone missing in the last two weeks alone. But those girls' disappearances had only been given rote attention by local police if anything at all. Most are from the bottom rungs of Texas society, many the American daughters of immigrants who are afraid of reporting anything for fear of being unjustly deported away from their even younger kids. There are several missing boys too, though unlike the girls, all of them are under the age of twelve. The implications are obvious, and impossible to stomach.

The case drags on for days. It seems like Fischer takes it the hardest, going so far as to promise one of the mothers of the missing boys that she would find them no matter what it takes. It is unlike her to make promises to families of victims, and even more unlike her to make promises she can't be sure she can keep.

Jane, on the other hand, seems unaffected, focused on the case with no more than his usual levels of intensity. But Lisbon knows him, sees the minute change in his expression when he realizes that Charlotte would have been close to the age of the missing girls. His walls go up instantly, nobody else any the wiser, but she knows.

It takes one of Jane's more unorthodox plans to find the boys barely alive in a shipping container heading not south towards the border as they'd expected, but on the back of a truck on its way to Canada with neither air conditioning to relieve the incredible heat nor real food. The girls are found in a second truck heading East for the coast and its big cities with their big markets. Several of them are near comatose from heatstroke and lack of food by the time they're found.

Lisbon later finds Jane talking to the first two children when they are reunited with each other in the hospital. They are soon to be released into the care of their mother, who will fluff and preen for the cameras but whose meticulously planned life and political campaign does not have room to raise two children she hardly regards as their own. The older one - a girl just turning seventeen - is holding onto her brother with a fierce protectiveness, and Lisbon knows instantly that the boy is going to be as well cared for as her own brothers had been, once. It makes her sad for the two of them.

Afterwards, she tracks Jane down to the benches outside, where he's on the phone having a quiet conversation away from ears inside the hospital building. He stands when he sees her though, passing over the tired but relieved smile that says _case finally closed_ even while still continuing his conversation. It takes her a few moments of listening in until she realizes he's on the phone with the boy's school, anonymously making sure his lunches would be paid off until he graduates.

When he hangs up, he just says, "Hi Lisbon," as if he hadn't just done something incredibly kind for a child towards whom he had no responsibility at all. She suspects he'd probably done something or the other for several of the kids, and would probably shrug and never be thanked for the rest of his days.

She glances around and doesn't immediately see anyone they know, so she reaches up to hold his face and bring it down so she can plant a kiss on his forehead. "Patrick Jane," she murmurs. "You're a good man."

He lifts his head away from her and shakes it with a chuckle. "Meh," he says, waving a hand as if to send the words away.

"You are," she insists. "And I love you."

He doesn't react in any way she expects. Doesn't smirk and tease her for taking a while to say it, doesn't smugly pronounce he's already known, doesn't grin goofily and lean over to kiss her.

Instead, he takes half a stumbling step back and sinks onto the bench behind him. "Oh," is all he says.

Concerned, she drops a hand onto his shoulder. "Jane?"

His eyes are closed, and he doesn't respond, only takes a shaky breath. And then she realizes that had probably been the first time he'd heard the words since his family were killed all those years ago. Unlike her, he doesn't have siblings who end every phone call that way, doesn't have nieces and nephews to say it on holidays, doesn't have anyone else at all who tells him he is loved.

Uncaring if anyone is around to see, she nudges his knees to stand in between them and hug him close, his cheek resting against her belly and temple against the base of her ribs. His arms come up around her hips, and she feels her shirt become ever so slightly damp beneath his eyes, though he tries to hide it.

"I love you, Patrick Jane," she tells him. "You are a good man, and you are loved. You are so loved."

After a moment, he huffs out a hint of a wry laugh against her shirt and releases her, and she sits down on the bench next to him and threads her fingers through his. She raises their clasped hands and presses a kiss against his knuckles as he watches her with something approaching reverence.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to say it," she offers, ignoring him as he shakes his head. "You deserved to hear it." And then she leans her head against his shoulder and drapes her other hand around their two, trapping him there.

He squeezes her hand, and then lifts his head to kiss the top of hers. "I feel like I've lived two whole lifetimes in one, and I don't think I'll ever come close to deserving you."

"Hey," she says, looking out into the trees. "Don't say things like that about the man I love."

His hand comes up under her chin and he gives her a soft kiss before pulling back only far enough to look in her eyes. "Thank you," he says simply.

They go back to watching the wind weave through the trees and try not to think of the terrible things they've witnessed.

* * *

The first time he danced with her, he wasn't fully aware of what he was feeling. Now that he knows he loves her, looking back on memories like that always happens through soft rose colored lenses that make it impossible to tell. He has no idea when he fell in love with her, only that he must have been for a long time before he realized and longer still before he admitted it to himself. In memory sometimes it feels like he always loved her, right from the beginning when she'd picked him up off the floor and ordered him to get cleaned up. Realistically, he knows it couldn't have been so early, not when he'd still been so broken, but she'd certainly been a bright spot in his life right from the moment he'd walked into hers. Maybe he'd fallen in love with her a few years later, when he'd fired a gun for the first time to save her, losing the best lead they'd ever had to finding Red John. Or maybe after that when she trusted him enough to hypnotize her and then trusted him again to help her entrap a vindictive psychologist. Or perhaps when he'd walked into an abandoned school building to find her on the floor in a bomb vest and couldn't think of leaving her side even for a second even when she ordered him away with tears in her eyes. Maybe later still when he'd abandoned her to fake a breakdown in Vegas and hurt her in the process, and she'd kept calling him anyway, the first person to care enough to really worry about him in a long time.

He doesn't know when it happened, only that it did, and is content with leaving it as an unsolved mystery in his life, a case never to be closed. Whenever it had happened, he hadn't been ready to understand it or to act on it, could never have been ready until the Red John chapter of his life was closed.

But it is now, and when they're investigating a case involving a dead event planner and a charity gala, he sets aside the flute of champagne he'd been using as a prop and takes her hand instead. She frowns at him when he drags her away from a suspect she's talking to, and plants her feet when he asks her to dance. "Jane," she admonishes. "We're on a case!"

So he gives her his best wide eyed puppy dog look, and hopes that it in combination with the sounds of Sinatra crooning over the speakers will be enough to sway her. She stays where she is, but he can see her valiantly fighting off a smile, so he gently runs his thumb across the back of her knuckles and leans in close to whisper in her ear. "I'm fairly certain it was the caterer's wife, and I'll tell you how I know that if you dance with me."

She glares at him even as she follows him to the middle of the floor, and the effect is belied entirely by the way her hand is soft and warm in his. "You should be telling me anyway," she insists. She lets him pull her close.

"Oh Lisbon, fly me to the moon, babe," he teases, voice gentle next to her ear, and fully expects the light smack he receives on his shoulder. They're both chuckling when she rests the side of her head against his cheek, her hair soft and smelling faintly of cinnamon. She always smells like fall, somehow.

"You gonna float me down to Peru, Jane?"

"Anywhere at all you want to go," he promises, and means it.

They find the caterer's wife in flagrante delicto with the gala's (recently widowed) honoree in the cloakroom.

* * *

The first time she visits the Airstream, she doesn't expect to spend much time there. Her apartment already feels like _theirs_ , given how often he's there, but on occasion they still keep up appearances of not yet cohabitating. She drives up to the oddly rustic and charming place he's found to park it, a full hour earlier than they'd originally intended to meet.

She'd called Tommy while driving home and had an emotionally draining conversation with him about the nomadic nature of his job and what it meant for Annie, who would be applying for college soon and surely needed some stability before then. He'd misinterpreted her concern for further disdain for his work as a bounty hunter, and they'd spent a full twenty minutes arguing until Annie had wrestled the phone from her father and none too politely informed her that she was "doing just fine, Aunt Reese" and promptly hung up.

So she is a little emotionally exhausted and had initially intended on just calling Jane to cancel, until she decided that she'd probably feel better in his company rather than outside it. So she drives over to the Airstream with some takeout in the hopes of letting him fuss over her for a little while until she heads home to curl up with a glass of wine and some much needed sleep.

What she doesn't expect when she knocks on the door is that he will open it a minute later in only a hastily wrapped towel, still damp from a shower. That the trailer is raised up on tires only exaggerates their height difference, so she is left at eye level with his chest instead of anywhere near his face, and just snaps her mouth shut instead of saying hello. It's rare, after all, to see him in anything but a suit outside of her bedroom, so she lets herself look until he shifts on his bare feet and laughs a little.

"See something you like, Teresa?"

He's always been in strangely good shape for a man who seems to spend many of his daylight hours on a couch, but she's long since suspected that he secretly has some sort of exercise routine she's yet to discover. But he'd come back from the island in better shape than ever, and has somehow managed to stay that lean and sun warmed in the time that had passed since.

He shifts again when she doesn't answer, and she belatedly realizes the night air must be chilly even though she currently feels rather warm and heated. She finally looks up to meet his amused expression. Before he can say anything else though, she notices that he's got shaving cream in one hand and a razor in the other, and she blurts out, "No!"

"O-kay, I guess I'll get dressed then?"

She nudges him back inside and follows, dropping the bag of food onto the first flat surface she sees before snatching the razor out of his hands and shaking her head.

"No, I meant- keep it," she says, gesturing at his chin, a little embarrassed.

"Hm. I always took you for a woman who prefers a man clean shaven."

She shrugs, because a few months ago he'd have been right.

"It looks good on you," she tells him. And then feeling bold because she can now, she leers at him a little, biting her lip and letting her eyes wander. "You definitely don't have to get dressed though. I brought dinner, but I can think of a few other things we might do first."

She doesn't make it home to her glass of wine, and she doesn't get much sleep either, though she definitely feels better before the night is out.

* * *

The first time either of them uses an endearment, it's her doing. He'd been calling her "dear" for years, but he uses that one for Grace and sometimes Cho too, so she still counts herself as the first.

It just falls past her lips one morning when she drops him off at the Airstream: "Bye darling, see you soon."

It gives them both pause, her as she tests the feel of the word out in her mouth, and he in slightly flustered delight. He looks so pleased that she endeavors to use it more, enjoying the way his cheeks pink slightly as he exits her car.

It isn't long afterwards when he first calls her "my love," which sends warmth all the way to her toes and makes her feel overwhelmed. It's far too strong for casual conversation, far too intimate and lovely to be used every day. She informs him of this promptly, and he just shakes his head in amusement and drops a slow kiss to her cheek.

He tries "honey" on for size next, and both of them frown at it immediately - too saccharine and somehow boring, and they are nothing close to boring. "Babe" still makes her laugh, and so he uses it when he is in a teasing mood, though she puts her foot down at "baby."

"Keep trying, darling," she tells him when he tries "pumpkin," smug and enjoying herself, though she trails a finger through his hair and presses her lips against his temple in consolation.

"Sweetheart" comes next on their way out to some far off crime scene and she shrugs, not hating it but not loving it either, and he chuckles as he files it away as a backup plan. "Only you would make this difficult, my love," he says, clearly enjoying the way she smiles and ducks her head before recovering herself.

She hums a moment in the back of her throat, eyes on the road, and she reaches over to skim a hand over his before returning it to the wheel. "Nice to know not everything comes to you easily," is all she says.

They're sharing a little booth at some hole in the wall diner when he tries again. "Teresa, beloved, light of my life, moon in my sky, queen of my heart, the most dazzling diamond ever cut - what kind of milkshake do you want?"

"Jane!" she admonishes, but she can't keep the smile or the blush from rising to her cheeks even as she kicks him lightly under the table.

He heaves a mock wounded sigh, dramatically sitting back against the shiny vinyl seat as if falling onto a victorian fainting couch. She only raises her eyebrows, and when he's righted himself, she says "strawberry" in the most matter-of-fact manner she can muster.

"You know Teresa, you can call me Patrick. I think that's allowed now."

She shakes her head, seeing the waitress approach. It isn't until she's happily enjoying her milkshake and he his apple pie that she leans closer to him in the booth. "Patrick," she says, and somehow it comes out sounding like an intimate caress drawn from somewhere low in her throat.

He immediately blushes, his pupils dilating, and chokes on his mouthful of pie. She watches him cough, pretending to be dispassionate about the effect she has had, though she's deeply amused and more than a little delighted.

"Okay," he finally manages. "Okay, you _cannot_ call me that in public. I don't even know how you did that!"

She grins at him. "So I guess it isn't allowed then?" she asks innocently.

"Absolutely not."

Eventually, he settles on "dearest," whispered to her as he walks her to her door after a long day, and they both enjoy the way it settles between her shoulders and makes the dark of the night around them seem friendlier.

* * *

The first time he'd gifted her something wasn't actually the paper frog, though that is one of her favorite memories of their early friendship. She secretly still has the frog stashed away between the pages of her mother's favorite book, tucked into the back of her nightstand. No, the first time was long before the frog, just a few months after they'd first met. He had been a different man then, a live wire still fresh with grief and perpetual insomnia but still convinced he would find and put an end to Red John before the year was out. It was less optimism and more conviction, but it had made her sad in those days to watch the cases stack up while Red John still eluded him, eroding away at his hope.

The anniversary of their deaths had loomed large, and with each passing day that it grew closer, he'd become more prone to outbursts, going from nuisance at crime scenes to downright terrible, antagonizing grieving family members and law enforcement for seemingly no reason at all. Cho and Rigsby had been keeping their distance from him, and after one particularly bad case Cho had even come directly to Lisbon and flatly asked if she was going to allow him to stay with their unit much longer. It had been very unlike Cho, who always let difficulties slide off his back like a duck in water. But Lisbon had only sighed, reminding Cho of the date and what it meant to Jane. "He has a gift, Cho, and we can't just let that go. I know he's only using us to get access to the Red John case, but we're using him right back, and he closes cases. Even this week he closed two, despite everything. Just give him time."

Cho did, of course, and eventually becomes the one in their unit - including Lisbon herself - who put up the least resistance to Jane's antics. The two of them share some strange understanding that she's never been able to explain, though it makes her appreciate both of them more.

The day of the anniversary, Jane had stayed on his couch all day, immersed in boxes of files and crime scene photos, and Lisbon wasn't even sure he'd remembered to eat. Though it was nothing like what he'd gone through, Lisbon remembered the first year's anniversary of her mother's death, how fresh the pain had still been, how little she could do to push it away. How she had never felt more alone, despite living in a house with three young boys and a father and all of his handles of liquor.

Jane didn't have anybody left, not that she could tell.

So she'd stayed late in the office in silent support, making little noises every now and then to remind him she was still there, though she never directly spoke to him. At seven, she'd brought him a cup of tea, and he'd looked surprised to see her when she stood in front of him with it. She didn't say anything, just offered a small smile and the briefest touch to the edge of his shoulder, and then made her way back to her paperwork. Ten minutes later, she'd looked up and seen him hunched over on the couch, his face buried in his hands with the empty teacup dangling from one of his fingers. She thought he might have been crying, and the sight had tugged at her heart even despite the mountains of extra work he'd created for her that week.

She'd stayed until nearly ten pm, bidding him a quiet good night when she finally left, not knowing where he'd go - or if he had anywhere left to go at all.

There had been two white peonies on her desk the next morning, lush petals tinged with hardly the barest brushes of pink. There was no note, but she'd looked up flower meanings, already knowing he'd find a way to tell a whole story if he wanted. Bashfulness, compassion, regret, honor. He'd said _I_ _'_ _m sorry_ and _thank you_ all without uttering a single word, and she kept the flowers in a cup of water on her desk until they withered into husks.

The first time he gifts her something after he tells her he loves her, it is a whole bouquet of deep pink peonies, handed to her without comment the day he's discharged from the hospital in New Mexico. Like those first two flowers, the bouquet (and the declaration preceding it) had followed her giving him a simple cup of tea, and she wonders what it is about giving him small, inconsequential things like cups of tea and socks that affects him so. For a man so much larger than life, it really takes very little to move him. The bouquet sits in the back seat as they drive back to Austin, and neither of them talk about it, but it's still in a vase in her living room on the evening of their first date. She doesn't need to look up the meaning a second time, still remembering that pink peonies were for romance and love.

There are actual tears in his eyes when she gifts him his old turquoise teacup for his birthday, meticulously repaired with food safe glue and ceramic glaze. He's so overcome he doesn't say anything for long moments, but the look in his eyes tells her everything and makes her want to give him things more often.

When he first gives her a ring, it's almost absurdly lovely, a twined vine of bright platinum with leaves in coppery rose gold topped with a delicate, tastefully sized peony. It too is in rose gold, though its petals are edged with the same platinum as the band, and there's a single green emerald right in the center. Two smaller diamonds frame the flower on either side, and she can't help but wonder if he'd designed it himself and when he'd had the time.

She wears it on her finger and the other ring on the chain over her heart next to her mother's cross. It should be strange, wearing the ring another woman had given him years ago, but it somehow makes perfect sense. Neither of them really believe in psychics or ghosts, but wearing the ring makes her feel closer to this woman she's never met, this woman who had loved him during the years she hadn't yet known him. It could be strange, she thinks, touching both the ring and the cross, but it isn't, wearing the talismans of two long dead women who had loved the two of them so ardently.

She catches him staring at it sometimes, and in weaker moments wonders whether he feels regret or if he feels wistful, wonders if he feels like he had to settle for second best. But he always seems to hear those particular thoughts, because he will immediately reach out to touch her hand or stroke her hair or ghost fingertips across her cheek with reverence. Will breathe out words like _I don_ _'_ _t know how I got so lucky_ or _every day I am moved by how grateful I am to have met you_ or simply just repeating _my love_ until she's a puddle on the floor, forgetting what she'd been thinking in the first place.

The third ring he gives her on a bright day in April, wild almond blossoms dropping sweet petals into a little pond in front of a little cabin. He has to wait to give it to her until they can dispatch a serial killer, because somehow their lives are punctuated by these terrible encounters, marking the events in their lives like dog ears in a book and commas in sentences. Particularly evil, homicidal, malignant commas, she supposes. But he replaces the gun in her hands with a new bouquet - wildflowers and baby's breath and forget-me-nots and two perfect peonies - and together they march out in front of their friends and make promises out loud that they'd already sworn to themselves in private moments. Some of them they'd even sworn out loud before, years and years ago stranded in shipping containers in Tijuana and at hospital bedsides in Sacramento and Malibu and in front yards outside crime scenes and in basements hunting monsters.

The first ring she gives him matches the third he gives her, and with it she gives him a secret she'd been keeping to herself for a whole week. The way the smile lights up his whole face in the gentle glow of golden lights reflecting off the pond is worth everything, and she realizes she'd never before dared to imagine herself ending up this happy.


End file.
